


not for honour, but for you

by banana_pattern_camo



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Not much of a plot, more of a stream of consciousness from john's perspective, takes place post snake eater pre everything else, while bb is still retired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29319024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banana_pattern_camo/pseuds/banana_pattern_camo
Summary: A snippet from the early years of their relationship; Adamska's staying the night at John's place, John is coming to the conclusion that he's in love, and it's cold and snowy. John suffers from 'many thoughts but head still empty'. Adamska suffers from being an incurable asshole.
Relationships: Big Boss/Ocelot (Metal Gear)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> don't take this too seriously (don't take anything i write seriously), i just find these two interesting and i like the idea that even though they're both such evil people in all other ways, they're devoted to each other.
> 
> (i should maybe also mention i haven't played MGSV, only seen a few clips, so i'm most familiar with their characterisation in MGS3, which i have played.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the date is vague bc ik in canon, big boss' retirement is short lived but idk how short. in my mind, this is several years after snake eater, but bb hasn't made contact with frank jaeger or any of the other stuff that comes next.

\---- _somewhere in america, late 1960s_ \--------

A cold mid-winter night, and the usual silence surrounding John's middle-of-nowhere cabin is amplified by the thick blanket of snow steadily growing outside. He's never been the biggest fan of cold weather, but after the red-hot jungle of bullshit that was Tselinoyarsk, this icy, isolated spot suits him just fine in his newfound retirement, thank you very much. 

Although the bedroom could be warmer, he must admit. Yawning, he draws the blankets tighter around him, only to be met with an indignant hiss as the blankets are tugged right back by the other occupant of the bed. 

Laughing softly, he draws Adam - for who else would it be, who else would be crazy enough to bother coming all the way out here to this godforsaken place just to see him - closer, and attempts to fit the blankets over both of them in a placatory gesture. The blonde sighs and curls up his body up even tighter, cat-like as always. John absently cards his fingers through Adam's hair. No longer sporting the prim and proper buzz cut he'd had when they first met, he's let his hair grow out a little, a few soft strands falling across his forehead. Cute shouldn't be the word to describe this maniac, John thinks, but, God help me, he _is_.

This isn't the first time they've spent the night together at John's place; rather, it’s become an increasingly frequent occurrence. It had been Adam who’d first sought him out after Operation Snake Eater - how he’d got wind of where John was, is anybody’s guess. They'd gone through the inevitable sparring-contest-as-a-way-of-greeting and gradually picked up from where they'd left off.  
There hadn't been time in Tselinoyarsk for anything more than fleeting exchanges, mostly involving violence, but it had been obvious to both of them (eventually) that there was a certain mutual _something_ between them. 

Here, it's as if they're in a kind of no-man's land. A temporary respite far away from the battlefield, where they are simply Adamska and John, not Snake and Ocelot. They've spent the past couple of years or so, during these sporadic meetups, figuring each other out, learning a little more every time. A gradual process; in their line of work, especially, it doesn't do to be laying all your secrets bare at once.

Of course, who knows how long this _s_ _omething_ will carry on for. 

While John is determined to stay away from the field for now (his part-time job as an instructor at the local gym and his drafts for a collection of essays on survival techniques are keeping him occupied just fine, thank you very much), Adam is still very much ‘employed’, by various people and for various purposes. He's in the middle of a mission now, has waltzed in to stay here for the night before carrying on to wherever he's going this time.

God knows what he's doing; John doesn’t bother asking. If Adam feels like it, he'll tell John about it after it's completed, (probably disobeying all of his orders by doing so) regaling him with tales of the latest poor souls that he's scared (or bored) half to death with his ridiculous gun tricks. But it's not a given. In their line of work, mundane questions like “Good day at the office?” aren’t quite so appropriate.

  
In any case, wherever Adam is going, he's got to leave at the crack of dawn to get there, apparently. John sighs and drops a kiss to the younger man's hair, not relishing the thought of waking up in the cold morning without a warm body wrapped around him. 

Said body shifts a little and looks at John with a lazy smile. They're not tired enough to fall asleep just yet, but too cold to do anything more than just lie together. They haven't done much all day, content to just sit by the fire listening to the wind howl, lazily exchanging insults, gossip, opinions on the latest westerns, saliva, etcetera.  
Adam's fingertips creep their way across John's chest, ghosting across his cheek before lightly tracing the rough skin around his lost eye; it’s become a familiar habit of Adam’s, and John can’t deny it’s somewhat soothing. 

They've not really mentioned the eye, or anything else regarding that whole "incident", but it's probably for the best, John thinks. It was, after all, an accident, and besides, what is there to say? _"I'm ever so sorry I shot your eye out while you were being tortured right in front of me, hope it didn't hurt too much?”_   
No, there's little that empty words can do. They won't make him grow a new eyeball, after all. 

Even so, John wants to believe there's some amount of genuine remorse in Adam's eyes as his fingertips trace their rhythmic circles.  
Well, he _wants_ to believe that, anyway.   
But if he's being completely honest, it's probably more of a sort of morbid fascination, mixed with a touch of twisted pride even, that lies behind Adam's cold blue eyes. 

Now, it’s a simple fact that John's never been one for other people, never been into the whole "form close relationships" stuff which seems to come so naturally to others.   
Except with _her_ of course, but she was different. A teacher, a mother, an enemy - but never a lover. And certainly never whatever _this_ is, this weird _thing_ that's started between Adam and himself.   
So given the fact that a steady lover of any kind would be strange enough, John muses, it's even stranger that out of all the people in the world, _Adamska_ is the one John can't stop thinking about lately, the one who more often than not is making himself at home in John's little cabin, his presence evidenced in the several tattered paperback westerns in the bookshelf, in the red scarf hanging in the hallway; in the way that none of the few knick-knacks John owns seem to stay in one place, Adam's restless fingers absently picking them up and putting them back in a different place each time.

At first glance, if you weren't looking very closely and had never met the man before, Adamska looks relatively harmless, pleasant, even. A good-looking young man, sharply dressed, ready for you to take home to mother.   
But as John is so acutely aware, that charming smile upon deceptively cherubic lips belongs to, quite frankly - and he says this fondly but firmly - quite frankly the biggest asshole he's ever encountered.  
A man whose assholery includes, but certainly isn't limited to: killing several comrades in cold blood and having the audacity to _smirk_ while doing so; juggling loaded revolvers in front of a civilian and apparently _enjoying_ the man's distress; and after watching someone else being tortured, having the audacity to say _it's_ _actually not that bad._

 _And I was that someone,_ John thinks incredulously. _And yet, God help me, here I am_ kissing _him. Just what does that say about me?_

Of course, it's not as if John fears Adam, because since they stopped being officially enemies-but-not-really-because-it-turns-out-it’s-all-very-convoluted in Tselinoyarsk, it's become obvious even to John that Adam has completely fallen for him, has no desire to hurt him intentionally outside of their occasional _"CQC lessons"_ , and besides, handy though the younger man is with a revolver, John knows he himself possesses the greater strength overall.  
  
Still. Just because a tiger is friendly to you, doesn't mean it isn't a little disconcerting to watch it devour other people. 

But for all of Adam's volatility, when he's curled up next to John like this, sleepy and relaxed, it's hard to imagine him as anything more dangerous than a house-cat. He'd probably hate to hear John say that, would rather be compared to a lion, a tiger, a leopard. Or an ocelot, obviously, but John still isn't convinced that's even a real animal. He'd never _heard_ of ocelots before the young major and his "Ocelot Unit" had shown up, and despite Para-Medic's assurances that they're real, he's still not sold. They might be extinct, anyway. Idly, he wonders if they are real what they might taste like, but dismisses that thought as too weird even for him. 

No, John decides, Adam is like a stray domestic cat. Proud enough, and dangerous to a point, but happy to cling faithfully to whichever person it takes a liking to. Gently batting at things with its paws, toying with them before - _swoosh!_ \- unsuspecting objects are knocked to the floor or shallow scratches appear on offending fingers. 

The fingertips ghosting around his eye pause for a moment and a sharp jab to his chest interrupts this train of thought, rather laughably echoing his simile. 

  
"Oi. What are you thinking about so loudly?" 

John grins. Opting to abridge his thoughts into the most concise answer possible, he matter-of-factly says, "You."

Adam snorts at that, goes back to his caressing. There's the slightest hint of an embarrassed smile about his lips. He rarely blushes, seemingly blessed with the gift of keeping the most immaculate poker face in all manner of situations, but he's not totally unreadable, especially when it’s just the two of them, and his defenses are (mostly) down.

Deciding then that he's had enough of his own thoughts that are threatening to spiral, John leans across to press lazy kisses haphazardly across Adam's cheeks, his nose, his neck. 

"Adamska," he whispers into the younger man's ear. 

(Often, he calls him by Adam for short, but John likes the way his full name sounds on his tongue. He's somewhat pleased by the idea that to everyone else, he is Ocelot, or ADAM, or whatever assumed name he might be working under, or maybe just "that weirdo who meows" - but John is the one entrusted with his real name.  
Alright, granted, EVA probably heard their conversation in the WIG as well, so it's not as if he's the _only_ one who knows it, but still. Just another fact he’ll choose to ignore for the sake of romance.)

"Adamska," he breathes again, now almost lying on top of him, wrapped all around him like a snake. 

"What?" is the flat response. 

John ignores it, merely nips at his ear before whispering Adamska's name again in a sing-song tone. 

" _What?!_ " is the now impatient demand. John grins. So easy to annoy, this boy. 

Adam huffs and turns to grab John's face in his hands, kissing him properly in order to shut him up. John smirks into it, and they stay like that for a while, hands idly roaming across each other's bodies, until John's fingers find their way to a spot on Adam's waist that he knows is where the man is most ticklish.  
Adam groans and tries to wriggle away, but John's left arm pinning him down is enough to keep him from moving, and he descends into helpless laughter. 

_Fuck me_ , thinks John, a smile he can't control stretching across his face. _How am I supposed to_ not _fall in love with this lunatic when he's giggling like that?_ _  
_ _  
_ Eventually, Adamska succeeds in extracting himself and manages to flip them over, settling down with his head now resting on John’s chest.   
  
There's silence for a few minutes, until John grumbles, “Do you really have to leave in the morning?”   
Adamska laughs and merely opens one eye. “Clingy, aren’t you?” he murmurs in a mocking tone.   
Pot calling the kettle black, John thinks, but he won’t deny it. It gets lonely out here in the snow, and lately he’s found himself waiting impatiently for whenever Adam is able to drop in next. Until Tselinoyarsk, being on the battlefield was the only time he felt truly alive. Now, he can probably add being with Adam to that very concise list, bringing it to a grand total of two (2) items, but with the current absence of a battlefield, that leaves him with only one (1) available option on his list of things-I-have-a-desire-to-live-for.   
  
John sighs and tells his overactive brain that this isn’t first-grade math class, thanks. For a moment he watches the snow falling past the window, more of a blizzard at this point. He runs his fingers through his dishevelled hair and glances at Adam, who seems to have already dropped off. He gently strokes the younger man’s hair and closes his eye, resigning himself to the task of falling asleep.   
  
\--------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! ^_^


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (slight warning, I suppose, for mentions of period-typical homophobia, but it's only referenced.)

When John wakes, the room is pitch black and his feet are cold. It's too dark to read the alarm clock by the bed, so at this stage of winter it could be any time before 7 o'clock.   
A soft rustling from across the room catches his attention, and he can just make out a vaguely Adamska-shaped figure, probably getting dressed. 

  
"Adam," he mumbles through a yawn. 

  
"Oh," comes a disembodied whisper. "Morning. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"It's alright. What time is it?" 

"Around 5:30."

John groans at that. He's no stranger to early mornings, obviously, after more than a decade spent in the military, but that doesn't mean he's ever come to like them. 

"I'm leaving in an hour or so, after I've had breakfast. You can go back to sleep if you want, John," Adam says softly. 

John stirs himself, shakes his head a little. He shuts his eye again for a moment, tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, then braces himself for the cold as he throws the blankets off. Hears the satisfying click of his joints as he stretches. 

He shuffles over to the window, opens the curtain. It's not snowing anymore, but it's piled up to a vast sea of white as far as the eye can see. Vaguely, he's aware of Adam padding out of the room. Always moves so damn quietly, that boy. 

Yawning again, John wanders into the cramped bathroom, splashes water on his face, brushes his teeth, stares at his reflection in the mirror for a moment. His hair's getting a lot longer, thick dark locks sticking up everywhere in an impressive bedhead. Paired with his missing eye and week-old stubble that's almost a full beard, he must look pretty wild, he thinks to himself with a wry smile.

He turns on the shower and yelps as it runs icy cold. Adam must have used up all the hot water already. Dick. If he's so cat-like surely he should be less inclined to take stupidly long showers, John grumbles to himself. Or is the mythical ocelot a species that _likes_ water?

Returning to the bedroom, he dons his eye-patch, ties his bandana to keep his hair at bay, and pulls on jeans and a thick jumper. He needs to go out and chop some more wood for the fire today, he recalls. That’s something to do, at least. 

Making his way into the living room, he finds the person responsible for using up all of his firewood sitting, surprise surprise, cross-legged on the rug by the fire. Adam's not fully dressed yet, wearing slacks but no shirt, only his telnyashka and what appears to be one of John's old fatigue jackets draped over his shoulders. 

John can't help but grin. Adam looks cute like that, the green camo print jacket far too big for him. 

A fishy smell reaches his nose as he notices that Adam is breakfasting on a single can of tuna, something he seems to actually choose to make a habit of. He's genuinely just eating it straight out of the can. Perhaps it's a little hypocritical of John to be commenting on others' eating habits, considering his complete lack of any finer tastes, but still. _Who eats nothing but plain tuna for a meal? He really_ is _like a damn pet cat._ _  
_ An image pops into his head of Adam pricking up his ears at the sound of a tin-opener clinking against a can. He snorts to himself, and drops a kiss to Adam’s hair on his way to the kitchen as an apology for secretly laughing at him in his thoughts.   
  
In the little kitchen, he makes some eggs and coffee for himself, then goes to sit on the couch in the living room, the two of them eating in companionable silence, too early for conversation. The small fire crackles softly in the grate. It's nice, he thinks, that they've reached a point where they can just be comfortable around each other, no awkward silences. 

Soon, Adam disappears into the bedroom to finish getting ready, and John is left alone with his eggs, and his thoughts. 

Yesterday's local newspaper is lying on the coffee table by the couch. He idly fills in a couple more answers to the half-finished crossword and flicks through the pages. There's not much of substance, just the universal tendency to make mundane small town happenings seem like exciting 'news'. 

  
The grocery store is getting an extension. Cold temperatures are expected. Someone’s cat got stuck in a frozen pond. The local church is apparently having a winter fair to raise some money, which can probably be interpreted as a jumble sale consisting of two stalls, at most. John's almost tempted to go, for the sake of something to do. He knows the group of old ladies belonging to the church who organise these kinds of things. They'd introduced themselves to him when he first moved here, encouraging him to come along to the Sunday service. 

Occasionally, he humours them and goes along, more out of politeness than any real interest in the word of God. Not their version, anyway, not the way they present their star-spangled flavour of Christianity, their unspoken implications that heaven is reserved for good-old-fashioned-traditional-nice-white-middle class-god-fearing-nuclear-American-families and to hell with everyone else. 

They probably wouldn't be quite so eager to give him their home-made apple pie if they knew he shares a bed with Adam instead of Eve, after all. 

The general concept of heaven and hell, though, is something he vaguely believes in, has found himself dwelling on a little more in recent years. 

Really, John thinks, he probably fully cemented himself a spot in hell the moment he chose not to pull the trigger on Adamska, chose to let him go; for there's no doubt in his mind that Adam will go on to reach new heights of assholery more serious than stealing all the hot water. The look in his eyes in Volgin's torture room had said it all. Adam is dangerous, there's no doubt about that, but he's also clever. Working for about 5 different factions at once is no small feat, after all. No, John has a feeling, an intuition perhaps, that in the coming years, coming decades, even, that wherever there's a web of lies, betrayal, bloodshed, conflict - Adam will be at the source of it, spinning all the threads, pulling all the strings, orchestrating it all. 

Objectively, he should condemn it. But from a personal perspective, he can't bring himself to care about any of that, to think too hard about what’s yet to come. His morals and ideals are blurry lately and frankly - there’s no use denying it - he's fallen for Adam, fallen far too deep to get back out, no matter what.

  
And besides, John knows deep down that he's very far away from being any kind of saint himself.   
  
If he’s being totally honest, he's been itching for the battlefield ever since he retired. The closest thing that can match the unique adrenaline of being on a mission is when he goes out hunting in the forest, shooting deer or rabbits for dinner, creeping silently through the snow so as not to startle them, carefully lining up the unsuspecting creature in his rifle sights, marching back through the snow with a lifeless carcass across his shoulder to begin the familiar rituals of skinning and roasting.   
It's fun, but not the same. Try as he might to get used to it, this mundane civilian life isn't for him. Frankly, he's bored. 

But since Operation Snake Eater, the things he'd previously taken for granted, simple ideas of friend and foe, queen and country, have begun to blur, no longer certain of who or what he's fighting for. All he knows right now is that he never wants to fight for people like _them -_ the ones who sat smugly at the top of the chain, planning out the circumstances of _her_ death so callously, nothing more than a small detail in their grand schemes of political gain - ever again. No, he'll go his own way. 

John finds it rather laughable that, despite all of the things he's done under the guise of patriotism, all of the lives he's taken under the pretense of a good American cause, all of the blood that's currently on his hands, it isn't because of any of _that_ that the righteous church ladies would brand him a sinner. You can kill another man in the name of patriotism and get into heaven just fine, but God forbid you ever fall in love with one.

 _Huh._ She'd _appreciate_ _a line like that,_ he thinks, then shakes his head. It's too early for thoughts involving _her._ He reserves dwelling on memories of her for when it's late at night and he has a bottle of whisky for company. 

Restless, he takes his plate and Adam's empty can to the kitchen, then wanders back into the living room to stand by the window. There's a gusty wind picking up and the sunrise, when it soon comes, will likely be obscured by thick, dark clouds. 

There's a storm brewing, he thinks, and he doesn't just mean the weather. This pretense at being a civilian can't last forever, he knows that, and sooner rather than later he knows he's going to end up back in the field, a man with a gun once more, except this time with a lot more control over who he’s supposed to be pointing the gun at, and perhaps this time with Adam by his side.

At that moment, Adam himself emerges in the doorway, tying his scarf. He’s in plain clothes like a classic spy; smart suit and tie, signature red gloves. No ridiculous cowboy boots and spurs this time, but the integrity of the look is ruined anyway by the long western-style brown overcoat he’s wearing on top, revolvers concealed in its inside pockets.   
  
Adam catches John’s eye and offers a casual wink and a smile as he breezes into the room. John extends an arm, and Adam, sensing the other’s pensive mood, softens his smile and goes willingly into John’s embrace. They stay like that for a while, John melting into it, resting his chin on Adam’s head.   
After a few minutes, Adam breaks away a little to run his fingers through John’s hair.   
  
“Your hair’s getting long,” he states unnecessarily.   
  
John just grunts.   
  
“Now you look like a caveman, as well as sounding like one.”   
  
John laughs and flicks Adam’s forehead. “At least I don’t look like a little kid dressing up in grown-up sized cowboy clothes.”   
  
“Rude.” A pause, and Adam runs his thumb across John’s cheek. “I’m leaving now.”   
  
“Hrm.”   
  
“This thing’s kinda complicated. I won’t be able to see you for at least a few months.”

  
“Sure. Send me a postcard, won’t you.”   
  
Adam snorts, leans up to kiss him. John realises, suddenly, that lately these kinds of moments with Adamska are the only times he feels a sense of anything resembling clarity. He kisses back with something bordering on desperation, and when he pulls away he can’t stop himself from blurting out the question, “You will come back, won’t you?”   
  
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he mentally kicks himself at how stupid that must have sounded. Not the kind of thing you would expect a gruff, hardened military man approaching his mid-thirties to say. More like the kind of thing a TV housewife would say to her gruff, military husband as he sets off on a brave and noble endeavour for the good of America that he might not come back from.   
But what he means by it, really, because he’s got no doubts whatsoever about Adam’s ability to not get himself killed, is “You’ll come back to _me_ , won’t you?”   
  
Because even though he knows that Adam is probably in this for the long haul, there’s always a lingering insecurity in his chest which rears its head when he’s in a bleak mood. The battlefield will always be there for him to return to, war an inevitable constant throughout the ages, even if he has to start one himself, but there’s no guarantee regarding Adam.   
  
But Adam seems to understand what John’s thinking, and he looks him firmly in the eye as he says softly, “I’m yours, John, for as long as you want me." 

A beat, then he smirks a little and says, “We’ll meet again.”

John grins at the echo of those words from Tselinoyarsk. 

He realises, then, why being with Adam is such a precious thing to him; it's because he can be sure that Adam isn't doing this out of any motivation other than love; no matter how much of a cold, scheming bastard of a triple-crosser he might be professionally, there's no ulterior motive here, no political reason or benefit for Adam to remain loyal to John. He doesn't do this for any false ideals of honour or patriotism. John's not convinced Adam _has_ any sense of honour anyway.

Yeah, they'll be okay, he thinks. Friends and enemies change like the wind, but there's no reason why Adamska and John can't endure throughout the years. 

There'll be no place in heaven for either of them at the end of all those years, not with their bloodied hands; but as he watches Adam disappear into the snow, John decides he doesn’t really care; - and yeah, he's sounding sentimental, but so what - because the inner heaven he's found whenever he's alone with Adam in this life will more than make up for whatever form of hell he's sent to when he's dead.   
And besides, he's pretty certain that Adam will be right there burning with him. 

\-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! (●´ω｀●)  
> kudos and feedback of any kind are always appreciated. ^_^  
> next chapter is more of an epilogue, it's very short.


	3. Chapter 3

Two months later, John is sat by the telephone in the living room, feet up on the table, receiver in one hand and a cigar in his other. 

Adam had actually sent him a postcard, with a phone number written on it, telling him in neat cursive to _“call if you get lonely. (but not too often because someone might be listening in)” -_ a statement charmingly punctuated with a little cartoon drawing of a cat. 

Today, John's not feeling quite as lonely as he sometimes is, because earlier on he'd called Para-Medic and exchanged the usual banter over the latest movies, before spending a reasonably productive hour in the library researching animals for his essays on survival training; but he does miss Adam's voice, wants to hear his laugh. It's been ages since they've spoken. 

He listens to the phone ringing a few times before he hears, "John?" 

  
"Adamska." He's grinning like a fool, just from hearing that voice. 

  
"I can't talk for long right now. How are you?" 

  
"Fine. But I missed your voice. What about you?" 

  
"I'm just swell. Things are getting hot, but I'm nearly done here. Probably back in a few weeks or so."

  
"Great. Hey, you know what?" 

  
"....What?"

  
"I was at the library today, doing some research for my writing."

  
"Oh yes?" A hint of impatience. John smirks. 

  
"Yeah, and you know what, I was reading all about ocelots, and apparently they're really stinky."

_  
"Excuse me?"_

  
"Yeah, their crap really stinks, more than other cats, and they're always damp, or something. Y'know, I didn't even think they were real until now, but this book was pretty definitive about it. Apparently they even live in Texas. Maybe there they all meow in cowboy accents."

  
" _John._ Wait, you thought they weren't _real_? What do you - OK, never mind, I seriously have to go now."

  
"Oh, your enemies are after you, huh? Bet it's because they could smell you from a mile away."

 _  
"John!"_ is Adam's exasperated response, but he's laughing, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his giggles. 

John grins. Mission accomplished, he thinks, as he puts the phone down. 

  
  


_\----------_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it! thank you so much for reading!! ʕʘ‿ʘʔ  
> i haven't written fiction for years, really, so apologies if this sucked. 
> 
> feel free to imagine the "dun dun dun duuunnn" at the end of the phone call in this chapter, just like after ocelot's phone calls at the end of mgs3...


End file.
